Adolphe.  And your conscience never troubled you?

Henriette.  No, and furthermore, I don’t know what conscience is.

Adolphe.  You don’t?  Well, then you’ll soon learn. [Pause] How do you believe Maurice will look when he gets here?  What do you think he will say?

Henriette.  Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make the same kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you.

Adolphe.  Well?

Henriette.  We guessed entirely wrong.

Adolphe.  Can you tell me why you sent for me?

Henriette.  Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty!

Adolphe.  How strange it is that you can admit your faults and yet not repent of them.

Henriette.  It must be because I don’t feel quite responsible for them.  They are like the dirt left behind by things handled during the day and washed off at night.  But tell me one thing:  do you really think so highly of humanity as you profess to do?

Adolphe.  Yes, we are a little better than our reputation—­and a little worse.

Henriette.  That is not a straightforward answer.

Adolphe.  No, it isn’t.  But are you willing to answer me frankly when I ask you:  do you still love Maurice?

Henriette.  I cannot tell until I see him.  But at this moment I feel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well live without him.

Adolphe.  It’s likely you could, but I fear you have become chained to his fate—­Sh!  Here he comes.

Henriette.  How everything repeats itself.  The situation is the same, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting you yesterday.

Maurice. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, my dear friends, if this be me.  For that last night in a cell changed me into a new sort of being. [Notices Henriette and Adolphe.]

Adolphe.  Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talk things over.

Maurice. [To Henriette] Perhaps I am in the way?

Adolphe.  Now, don’t get bitter.

Maurice.  I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, and suspicious also, so I guess I’ll soon be left to myself.  And who wants to keep company with a murderer?

Henriette.  But you have been cleared of the charge.

Maurice. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but not by public opinion.  Here you see the murderer Maurice Gerard, once a playwright, and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc—­

Henriette.  O my mother and my sisters—­my mother!  Jesus have mercy!

Maurice.  And can you see that I actually look like a murderer?  And then it is suggested that my play was stolen.  So there isn’t a vestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday.  In place of my own, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and he is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs.  O Solon, Solon!  Such is fortune, and such is fame!  You are fortunate, Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded.